Silent Night
by RockinJanelle
Summary: The silence was killing him. He didn't want to be in the hospital, not like that. Mystrade. PG-13. Warning: character death.


**Title: **"Silent Night"  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>_Mycroft/Lestrade__  
><em>**TV Show: **_BBC Sherlock  
><em>**Word Count: **_~2,300_  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong><br>A/N: I AM TERRIBLE AT WRITING, I'M SORRY.**

**I made myself cry at this when writing, but the more I think about it, you guys will probably think it's heartbreaking. I CRIED because of all the times I watched ER, and those were some sad times.. So if you don't cry, that'll just make me look pathetic. WHOOPS LOL**

**Anyway, enjoy!**

**x x x x x x x x x x x x x **

The silence was killing him. Every so often, he would hear an ambulance siren in the distance flare and cry out amongst the living dead, or a monitor race against time. He remembered hearing all the sirens that night, all the noises that would not make a difference, the ones that would screech and howl for no reason. All the people that rushed through the hospital only cared about keeping their jobs. No, they hardly cared about the man that was dying in the bed after being shot by a criminal on the run.

He wasn't there at the standoff. He wasn't by his side at all. The only time he was there was when they were wheeling him into the hospital, when he was still alive. Mycroft was at his own flat, a few blocks away from the hospital itself (he strategically planned it if and when someone tried to kill him). He was waiting for Lestrade to call him around the time he usually did, around the time they always talked on the phone before seeing each other almost an hour later. He wasn't worried about him being shot or stabbed or anything else; he was patiently waiting for a phone call.

His brother had texted him, which was odd because his brother never texted him. _Lestrade is injured. Bringing him to the hospital. Come quickly. – SH. _And that was it. He didn't know the extent of Lestrade's injuries, didn't know how he was. Just that he was injured and he was going to the hospital. All he knew was that he was out the door in less than 30 seconds, getting into his car, and heading toward the hospital. In almost a minute, he was there, waiting.

When he saw Lestrade being pulled out from the ambulance, it was only for a glance. He looked pale, blood staining the cloth underneath him. He was shot in the chest—Mycroft stopped for a brief moment and looked at the blood pumping out at an unusually fast pace. What artery was hit? Where was the bullet? Mycroft knew his brain was racing, but he didn't want to know about the facts; he wanted his partner to be okay. He squeezed between a few doctors and looked down at him; his eyes were open, looking around. It was a good sign, but Mycroft knew he was in shock. Mycroft grabbed Lestrade's hand and squeezed it.

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to say anything. Everything around him went silent—all the machines were just background noises now. Mycroft looked down at Lestrade and met his eyes, seeing Lestrade trying to breathe. He smiled under the bag they were using to give him air; Mycroft couldn't smile back. It wasn't a time to smile—why was he smiling? Lestrade squeezed back.

"Mycroft," he whispered. Mycroft could hardly hear him, what with everyone around him yelling orders for him. Lestrade started to blink, then Mycroft saw he was getting a little dizzy as his head started to spin around.

"Greg," he called back. The doctors were trying to push him away, to get Lestrade into the trauma room. Mycroft didn't want to let go, but he was already feeling Lestrade's grip slowly drift away. When would be the next time he would see him? Mycroft gave one little squeeze and whispered: "I love you." Then, his hand was ripped away from Lestrade and Mycroft followed them as much as possible before Lestrade was brought into the room. Lestrade rolled his head over where Mycroft had been before and reached out to the doctor next to him, possibly mistaking him for Mycroft. Then, all Mycroft heard before the door closed was:

"Don't leave me."

He snapped out of the recent memory. Mycroft stared down at the bloodied floor and saw the red color darken. It hurt to think about it, but it was the last words he heard, the last words Lestrade would ever say to him. He felt a lump in his throat—how he really wished to throw up—and felt his heart…he couldn't explain the feeling. It was the worst pain he had ever been in, and he had been tortured by dangerous men before. It wouldn't stop hurting. He put his hand against his heart and felt it pound against his ribcage, felt something hurting him. It felt like someone was crushing him; he couldn't breathe.

He closed his eyes (he was in so much pain it was making him cry) and listened to some of the sirens die away, to forget all about the monitors around, and all he could see was him in the hospital, outside the very room he was in, seeing Lestrade, seeing everything be torn away. He was an adult, he had been used to death. But it was the first death that would matter, the one that would hurt him the most. His father's wasn't bad; he was young, he would grow out of it. But this was someone he loved, someone he cherished, had the privilege to make love, grow into love, admire love, and love everything surrounding him when he woke up. It was a face he wanted to see every morning.

But he watched it all unfold.

He heard the doctors call out to Lestrade.

He watched the doctors scrambling to stop the bleeding (they did for a moment or two).

He saw the nurses continuously bag him.

He watched them cut open the wound a little more, trying to get the bullet out of him.

He saw the doctors dig around the wound, trying to get it out.

He heard the doctors cry out for gauze.

He barely felt his brother hold onto his shoulder.

He saw the gush of blood crash to the floor.

He started to feel his body go numb.

He saw the doctors race around Lestrade to apply pressure to the wound.

He saw the heart monitor flat-line.

He heard hysteria.

Mycroft, for what felt like a second, went back to his memories with Lestrade as they started CPR. He remembered when they first met, when he was called on a scene because Sherlock was being a nuisance. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," he first said to him. Mycroft remembered how soft his hands were when they shook, how luxurious his voice sounded.

The first time they went out on a date wasn't really a date. They happened to cross paths at a coffee place, and Lestrade had minutes to kill—so did Mycroft. They talked about themselves, exchanging backgrounds. They eventually talked about Sherlock and John, talking about the case they were on now. Mycroft knew he wanted to see more of this man, wanted to know more about him. Wherever he was in public, in the city or not, he always looked for Lestrade.

The next time they saw each other, Lestrade was at Mycroft's door. "Would you, if you aren't too busy with your work, want to join me for dinner?" It was their first date. How lovely that dinner was! How magnificent the evening went! They talked about their work, their life, and they both couldn't stop talking unless they were going to eat. And when the silence hit, they could only stare at each other, shyly smiling and trying to keep their composure. Mycroft wouldn't forget the dinner, or the dinners that followed.

Lestrade was the first to make the first move. Mycroft remembered how soft and delicate his lips were, how gentle the kiss had been. Then they were hungry for more. When they kissed it was like an explosion. Each kiss, one after another, no matter where they were (most of the time Mycroft surprised Lestrade on a crime scene), it was exciting. Mycroft never felt more alive.

Everything else was racing in front of Mycroft, all the times in the bed, all the times in the flat. Every morning, evening, night, date, dinner, everything came at him. Everything started to hurt. Mycroft felt his brother squeeze his shoulder, but all Mycroft wanted to do was run into the trauma room. He didn't see the trauma room, however; he saw their bedroom door. Whenever Mycroft stood outside the closed door, he was always so anxious, always wondering if Lestrade was behind it, lying in bed already if it was a late night. Or maybe he was just in there, changing, getting ready for dinner. Or if he wasn't there, could Mycroft just lie in the bed and wait for him? He usually did; he didn't mind, it was for his love.

Soon enough, he started to walk and pushed open the trauma door. Sherlock tried to stop him, but there was no point. He would've done everything to open the door. What he saw wasn't the doctors slowly calming; he saw an empty bedroom. A window was open, with a slight breeze moving the white curtain. It was dark, the streetlights outside giving everything a shadow. But Mycroft knew Lestrade wasn't there. Everything was in order, like Mycroft loved. Then, a small noise continued to rattle through the air, the same tune coming through his ears. Mycroft suddenly snapped back to reality and stood in a puddle of Lestrade's blood on the ground. He didn't look down, however; he stared at the man on the table, at the people scattering away.

The heart-rate monitor didn't move; it kept the same tone until someone switched it off. Mycroft stood at the end of the bed, looking down at Lestrade; his eyes were closed, his clothes bloodied beyond belief, his hair looking almost stiff, his lips dry, his hands relaxed. Mycroft felt the main doctor reach out and touch his arm. "I'm sorry, we did all we could," he whispered. But Mycroft couldn't believe it, he didn't want to believe it. He reached out and touched Lestrade's foot, trying to feel anything—a wiggle in the toes, a twitch, a pulse, anything. He wanted to hear Lestrade say "Stop it" because he hated when Mycroft touched his feet.

But there was nothing.

Life had no place in the trauma room.

Mycroft was offered a chair by John, being moved around the gurney by Sherlock. It was one of the few times that Mycroft and Sherlock saw eye-to-eye, but Mycroft wouldn't remember. He didn't care if he had a seat; he only cared about the man on the bed. He didn't look up at either one of them; he kept his eyes on Lestrade. How still he looked, how pale his face had become. He didn't notice Sherlock or John leave. He noticed how the lights in the room meant nothing but still burned, yet the man that lit up his life meant everything and faded away.

Mycroft closed his eyes and just sat there, listening for the first time the horrible silence he had been forced to hear.

He didn't know how much time had passed. Mycroft didn't do anything but sit in the chair. He didn't touch Lestrade, he didn't make a move toward Lestrade, nothing. He just sat and stared. No one bothered him. Had he been thinking about much? No; his heart wouldn't allow it. He just sat in the hospital room, his eyes closed, tears coming one after another, feeling his heart be ripped apart by some force truly evil, listening to the deafening silence.

Mycroft opened his eyes; the scene didn't change. Lestrade was still there, still lying in his own blood, still with his eyes closed, still not making a sound. Mycroft looked at his face and felt a sharp pain stab away at his heart. Had this been what his mother deemed "heartbreak"? It felt like it; maybe that was it.

Mycroft realized many things when looking at Lestrade's face:

He would never kiss him in the morning again.

He would never hold him at night.

He wouldn't hear his voice.

He wouldn't wake up and see Lestrade sleeping next to him.

He wouldn't be there.

Mycroft made the first movement in the night, and wrapped his fingers around Lestrade's hand. It was silly to think that Lestrade could hear him, could feel him, could do anything—Mycroft knew he was gone. But he didn't want to believe it. He wanted to believe that it was only a dream, that him and Lestrade would wake up and laugh about it. Mycroft felt Lestrade's cold hand and squeezed it as hard as he could. He wished he would get a response.

He wouldn't.

Mycroft looked up at Lestrade's face and felt his lips tremble, felt his hands start to suddenly quiver. No, he was not going to see his love go away. There was no way he was dead, he thought. He moved from the chair and grimly looked down at Lestrade, at the man that changed his world. He leaned forward and gently kissed his lips—they weren't the same, but Mycroft needed to kiss them one more time.

And when he broke away, he could hardly stand. He could hardly breathe, hardly keep his composure. He had to sit back down. He needed to sit and keep hold of Lestrade's hand, keep hold of everything that was precious to him. Mycroft bowed his head and sobbed. It was the first time he ever let himself go, let himself painfully scream about anything. He wouldn't remember what he said during the entire outburst, nor would he remember what he thought of at the time. He didn't notice anything. All he could do was cry. And no one would see him cry; no one would see him hold onto Lestrade's hand for dear life; no one would hear Mycroft speak to him one final time.

"Please don't go."

And then he noticed he was all alone.


End file.
